Incentive
by nerwende90
Summary: "Now, standing in his living room, one hand clutching his violin a little too tight while the other one, holding the bow, was hanging limply by his side, Sherlock Holmes was truly and completely baffled. For there, on the threshold, clad in casual clothing that felt strangely wrong and grinning from ear to ear, stood none other than Jim Moriarty."
1. Sherlock

" _Only free people have an incentive to be virtuous. Only people who bear the consequences of their own acts will care about those consequences and try to learn from their mistakes."_

Harry Browne

* * *

 **Sherlock**

When Moriarty's "Did you miss me?" message had spread all over the Londonian TV network, Sherlock hadn't been exactly surprised. His curiosity had been piqued, of course, but somehow it hadn't managed to throw him off his game. For one thing, it didn't mean that the consulting criminal was still alive. It was very likely that the thing had been pre-recorded and Moriarty had given orders to broadcast it at that precise moment. It didn't solve the "why", but the "how" was fairly obvious to the detective.

But now, standing in his living room, one hand clutching his violin a little too tight while the other one, holding the bow, was hanging limply by his side, Sherlock Holmes was truly and completely baffled. For there, on the threshold, clad in casual clothing that felt strangely wrong and grinning from ear to ear, stood none other than Jim Moriarty.

"Well, did you?" the Irishman asked lightly, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

Sherlock frowned and shook his head in confusion, trying to regain some sort of composure. "What?"

"Miss me," Moriarty clarified slowly as if talking to a mental patient. "Did you?"

Sherlock huffed, feigning boredom as he carefully returned the violin and bow to their case.

"Don't flatter yourself," he said simply, closing the lid with slightly shaking hands.

He took his time straightening up, brushing the creases off his pristine white shirt, refusing to let the smaller man see his mental struggles. When he finally turned around to face Moriarty, Sherlock found that the man hadn't moved an inch and still bore his infernal smile.

"Go on, then," he prompted in a detached tone, "Tell us how you did it."

Moriarty chuckled and finally stepped into the room, plopping down into the red armchair. "Boring," he announced, plucking a white thread from his black jacket and letting it fall to the ground. "I'm way more interested in our new problem."

Sherlock gave a long-suffering smile as he sat down into his own chair. "I wasn't aware we had a new problem." He narrowed his eye at Moriarty, scrutinizing. "You're not a twin or something, are you? Because that would be terribly disappointing."

Moriarty rolled his eyes. "Please. This isn't a soap opera."

Sherlock had to stop himself from mirroring the man's previous action. "You're not going to tell me, are you?"

Moriarty held out his hands. "You know what they say about magicians and their tricks. Besides, we're past that, now.

\- Oh, yes," Sherlock drawled, "Our 'new problem'. Do tell us all about it."

He had spoken in a monotone, refusing to give the criminal the reaction he obviously seeked. But it didn't seem to bother Moriarty. In fact, he seemed rather amused by Sherlock's attitude.

"Oh, Sherlock," he cooed, "It really was about time I came back if you're that far off your game."

He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and his fingers steepled together. Suddenly his head darted up and he glanced around, a look of mock worry on his face.

"Isn't something missing around here?" He turned to look in the direction of the kitchen, muttering "I wonder…", then leaning to his right to look toward the stairs.

"He's at work," Sherlock said tensely, letting his hands fall to grip the arms of the chair tightly. Something in his chest clenched as well.

"Is he now?" Moriarty asked as he sat back, smiling anew. "That's your problem, Sherlock," he said with an almost compassionate shake of his head. "You see, but you do not observe."

And that's when Sherlock noticed. Even as an ice-cold feeling of sheer dread settled in his gut, his brain couldn't help but wonder how he hadn't noticed earlier. Maybe it was because his nemesis' arrival had caught him so completely off-guard, maybe it was because he had been too busy looking for signs of weapons or reinforcement, or maybe his anger had just impaired his judgement. But none of it was an acceptable excuse to the man who claimed to be able to read people at first glance.

For there was no mistaking that jacket with its absurd amount of pockets and those faux-leather, asymmetrical patches. In fact, Sherlock could still see the small tear that had been sewn back with military precision after an altercation with a knife-wielding maniac.

"Where is he?" he asked through clenched teeth, his knuckles whitening, some of them popping when Moriarty had the gall to laugh.

"There we go!" he praised, "I knew you'd get there someday."

He made a big show of getting something out the inside pocket, pulling the jacket open further than necessary. Even from his seat, Sherlock could make out a dark brownish-red stain on the black fabric.

"He put up a good fight, Johnny-boy did," Moriarty said calmly, "Of course he did. But then," his fingers wrapped around the butt of the gun he had tucked into the pocket and lay it onto the coffee table between them, "I guess I had taken precautions. Even I am not crazy enough to underestimate him."

It wasn't often that Sherlock Holmes found himself speechless, but all biting retort had long since died in his throat. He was staring at the gun, John's gun, trying to remember how to breathe. The meaning behind Moriarty's words was all too clear, as were the two evidences that were desperately staring him in the face.

"Shame, really," Moriarty went on, shaking his head regretfully. "He was so much fun to play with. And strong, too. Oh, my. If you only knew how hard he tried not to scream. Didn't want to give me the satisfaction, I guess." When Sherlock raised his eyes, he found Moriarty staring at him. The smaller man's lip stretched into a wolfish smile that never made it to his eyes. "But scream, he did, Sherlock," he assured him.

"I don't believe you," Sherlock ground out, vaguely aware of the ache in his fingertips. "If what you say is true, then there's no game, no puzzle, no riddle. What could you gain from this? What would the endgame be?"

Moriarty sobered up again and stood up, making his way over to Sherlock and leaning down, one hand on his shoulder and the other on the back of the chair. "Just keeping my promise," he whispered, ducking his head a little to look the detective in the eyes. " _I'll burn the heart out of you_ , Sherlock. Remember that?" He gave Sherlock a fake apologetic smile. "I did tell you. But did you listen?"

All at once, Sherlock's mind filled with statics as his sight was painted red. Springing off his chair, he grabbed Moriarty by his – John's – jacket lapels and threw him to the ground, delivering a harsh kick to the criminal's ribs before he could get up. He reiterated the action once, twice, three times before he felt and heard a satisfying _crack_. As Moriarty lay there on his side, gasping for breath, Sherlock pulled him forcibly to his feet and delivered a series of vicious punches.

Moriarty, for his part, was desperately trying to block out the blows, blood and bruises blossoming on his face. He was talking, but Sherlock's mind couldn't make out the words. He didn't care. Nothing Moriarty could say would stop Sherlock from ripping him to shreds.

A mean right hook sent Moriarty flying backwards and falling halfway onto the sofa. _Why isn't he fighting back?_ The tiny part of Sherlock's brain that was still clinging to sanity asked, but the detective shut it up. It didn't matter if the criminal fought back or not. He wasn't going to leave this place alive.

Remembering John's gun, Sherlock spun around and got his hand around the weapon, feeling his rage burn hotter still at the thought of his friend carrying it with him as a means of protection that simply wasn't enough. Ignoring all reminiscence of that night at the pool, he brought the gun up and aimed.

This time, Moriarty did fight back. Just as the detective pulled the trigger, the criminal had lunged at him, knocking him down in a rugby tackle. The gun clattered to the ground and slid out of Sherlock's reach, but Moriarty didn't try to grab it. Instead he was straddling Sherlock and pinning his arms to the side as the taller man furiously tried to shake him off.

Sherlock could see his lips, still stretched into that sickening grin, move again, but the words were lost on him. His mind had signed off to let his primal instincts to destroy take over. As he focused on his next course of action, he realised that Moriarty seemed to favour the upper left side of his body. The grip on that hand wasn't quite as strong as in the right side. Bracing himself, Sherlock kicked at the floor and brought his knee up, hard, into Moriarty's upper back, hitting him square in the left shoulder blade.

It worked beyond expectations. Moriarty gave a pained shout as his grip slackened and he had to sit back on his haunches, grunting in pain. Sherlock took advantage of this and punched him in his jaw, feeling it pop under the impact. Moriarty fell to his side and this time it was Sherlock who straddled him, grabbing his hair and pulling his head up, making it crash viciously against the floor.

When he let go, Moriarty was panting, blood all over his face, making his manic smile look that much scarier. His eyes were drooping shut as unconsciousness tried to take him, but Sherlock wouldn't have that. Moriarty needed to be awake for that last part. Sherlock's face had to be the last thing Moriarty ever saw. Curling his hands around the criminal's throat, thumbs right on his Adam's apple, Sherlock squeezed, increasing the pressure slowly. He was going to make sure Moriarty felt every second of it.

Of course, Moriarty wasn't quite done yet. As soon as Sherlock had seized his throat, his hands had shot up to wrap around the taller man's wrists in a vain attempt to pull them off him. When that failed and Sherlock's hold tightened, Moriarty's left hand fell to his side, blindly reaching for some sort of weapon, but Sherlock merely lifted himself off of the man to kick the gun into the kitchen, removing Moriarty's only chance at a proper defence.

Sherlock watched in sick satisfaction as Moriarty's smile finally faded, still tightening his grip ever so slightly, rejoicing at the weakening struggles underneath his weight. He couldn't help but stare, fascinated, at the pulse point in Moriarty's neck, just peeking out from underneath his hand. He could feel the man's heart's frantic beat as its oxygen supply was inexorably cut off.

When he looked back up into the man's blue eyes – dark, his mind corrected, dark eyes, not blue – he was surprised to see not only pain and fear, but also some sort of sadness. Moriarty's mouth was still moving, and though there was no sound left for him to make, Sherlock could read the words he was mouthing. _Sherlock, please._

The feeling of wrongness from before resurfaced, but Sherlock shoved it down his subconscious, refusing to feel guilty about his actions. Yes, he was murdering a man in cold blood. That was one way of looking at it. But the way _he_ saw it, he was merely squashing a spider. He didn't particularly care what would happen to him after that. John was dead, and Sherlock was getting rid of his killer. Nothing else mattered.

Finally, he felt the grip Moriarty had on his wrist slacken as the smaller man's eyes rolled in his skull and his head hit the floor with a dull thud. Feeling a smile, not unlike the criminal's, stretch his own lips, Sherlock loosened his grip and took a moment to catch his breath before looking up at the man's face.

Later, when he would recall this moment, he would remember it as the moment the world stopped spinning.

There was no consulting criminal on the ground. No trace of Moriarty anywhere. The sight of the syringe lying under the sofa where it had probably been kicked at some point was enough explanation for the events of the last few minutes. Even as he took in reality, Sherlock could feel the familiar pinch in the crook of his left elbow where a new track mark had been added to the collection. It had all been a drug-induced hallucination. Moriarty hadn't returned to 221b.

Instead, lying on the floor, one arm still outstretched from his last desperate attempt at survival, was John Watson.

Sherlock threw himself off from John, his mouth opening in a silent scream. He stared at John, anxiously waiting for any sign of life at all before rushing back to him, his fingers on John's pulse point. "No, no, no," he chanted under his breath, "Please, tell me I didn't, please…" He couldn't feel anything, but he didn't know if it was because his fingers were shaking so hard or if there simply was nothing to feel at all.


	2. John

**John**

When you've spent most of your life dreaming of being a surgeon, then spent some time on the battlefield, then thrown some crime-fighting into the mix, being a GP in a small local clinic can seem incredibly dull.

Not that John Watson didn't like his job – you know, his real job, the one he was actually paid to do – but it did lack the thrill his adrenaline addiction made him yearn for. He was perfectly aware of how unhealthy it was, but it didn't stop him. It didn't help that it was mid-January, which only meant that his shoulder ached and that most of his patients consisted of cases of the flu or the common cold.

Mary was spending the evening at Molly's, those two having grown alarmingly close alarmingly fast, so John had decided to pay a visit to his ex-flatmate. He had a bit of trouble getting a cab, which only meant standing in the cold while his shoulder ached like nobody's business and he was shivering. When finally a cabbie took him, he actually thanked the man as if he was doing him a favour. This earned him a strange look in the rear-view mirror, but he didn't care.

Stepping into 221b now still felt like going back to your parents' house after you've moved out, and John couldn't help but enjoy the comforting familiarity of it. He went to greet Mrs. Hudson first, but she seemed to have gone out. John smiled to himself, thinking that she would be complaining about her hip when she came home. Upstairs Sherlock was playing his violin, though the sounds he was making didn't sound like Sherlock's usual work at all.

Frowning, John made his way up the seventeen steps, the familiar feeling of anticipation gripping him as he got closer and closer to the sound. Even when he was still living there, he would always dread that first step into the common rooms, wondering what might await him there.

But nothing seemed particularly out of place as John stepped into the living room. In fact, the flat even looked a little tidier than usual. "Finally cleaned up, huh?" he called, raising his voice to be heard above the sound of the violin. Sherlock stopped playing at once and turned to look at him, freezing as he took him in.

John groaned internally when he saw Sherlock's face. To the trained doctor's – and ex-flat mate's – eye, there was no mistaking the glassy eyes and the thin sheet of sweat on Sherlock's brow. It was all too clear. Sherlock had used again, and was in the middle of a trip.

Shaking his head, John debated yelling at him, but he decided to save it for later. Sherlock was obviously too far gone at this point, it would be a waste of time, energy and perfectly good swear words.

So instead he buried his cold hands in his pockets and asked, "Well, did you?"

The detective seemed to have a hard time focusing, and John watched his breathing closely, trying to estimate his pulse from a distance. "What?

Clean up," John enunciated slowly to get his point across, "Did you?"

Sherlock's whole attitude change and he grew dismissive as he went about putting his violin away. "Don't flatter yourself," he muttered. John wasn't entirely sure what he was supposed to make of that, but he knew better than to look for sense or reason in nonsensical, unreasonable behaviour.

Sherlock took a surprising amount of time straightening himself before turning to John and asking, as if fulfilling a boring chore, "Go on then, tell us how you did it."

Well this time, John was completely at a loss for what to say, but again he decided against asking. So instead he went to sit in what he still called his chair, replying with a dismissive "Later. I'm way more interested in what the hell is your problem.

I wasn't aware we had a new problem," Sherlock replied after he had sat himself down as well.

John was about to point out the fact that this was absolutely not a _new_ problem, but then Sherlock asked something about John being a twin. For lack of a better answer, he said, "Twin? I thought it was never twins."

To which Sherlock replied with a question: "You're not going to tell me, are you?"

John was about to ask for clarification when he remembered Sherlock's prompting remark from earlier. Still having no idea how to reply to that, he simply held out his hands. "I really don't know what you're talking about, mate. Besides, that's not the point.

Oh, yes, our new problem. Do tell us all about it."

John hesitated for a second, wondering if Sherlock was really still playing into whatever scenario his foggy mind had cooked up for him, or if this was a sliver of clarity. He decided to try his luck. "Jesus, Sherlock," he sighed as he hunched over, placing his elbows on his knees, "How many times will I have to come back and find you high off your mind?"

Unable to stand his friend's glassy stare, John started to look around the room for the weapon of the crime. "Where did you put that damn thing?" he muttered mostly to himself. "Must be here…" he added before finally spotting the empty syringe on the floor, near the open door. He felt his shoulders sag in defeat as the reality of the situation stared him in the face.

"He's at work," Sherlock stated, and when John turned back to look at him he was surprised by the tension in his friend's demeanour.

"Who is, now?" he asked cautiously as he sat back, but he received no response. "What's the matter, Sherlock?" he asked, concern gripping his words, "Where did you go this time, mate?"

Sherlock's eyes suddenly drifted down to stare at John's jacket, widening in some sort of realisation. John had no idea what Sherlock's mind was seeing, but he had a feeling he didn't really want to know. As horror slowly twisted his friend's features, John sighed to himself.

It wasn't the first time John had walked in on Sherlock right after he'd shot up. Hell, he'd even walked in on him _about_ to shoot up once. That time John had grabbed the syringe off him and stomped on it, which had ended up in a huge fight about _Do_ you _realise how expensive that thing is_ and _Do you realise what you're doing to yourself,_ at the end of which each of them had sulked at the other.

John had known perfectly well that Sherlock could and would easily get another syringe, but at least he'd made his point. Plus, his anger issues – courtesy of PTSD – very often demanded a sacrifice, so it had been nice to have something to break without remorse for a change.

But there was no getting used to the sight of your friend virtually playing Russian roulette with a loaded syringe. Especially as a doctor and an army veteran who couldn't help but feel envy at Sherlock's health and constitution. Sometimes it felt like all his experience on the battlefield had ever got him was a constant pain in the shoulder and fucked-up immune system, while Sherlock never _ever_ got sick.

John didn't wish for anything bad to happen to Sherlock, of course, but it seemed unfair to him that the detective could put his body through hell – starving it, exhausting it, and pumping it full of drugs – without consequences.

John was startled out of these thoughts by Sherlock's razor-sharp voice. "Where is he?"

So much for a moment of clarity. Sherlock was still deep, deep into his own mind, and apparently the view sucked. Aware of the necessity to tread lightly, John asked, "Where is who? You're not making any sense, mate." He felt something shift inside his jacket, some sort of tearing. He checked and saw that the seams of his inside pockets were slowly yielding under the weight of the – unloaded – gun he had stuffed in there.

John had no idea what was so horrifying about his jacket, but Sherlock kept staring at it like it was made of Semtex. The part of John's brain that often led him to laugh at inappropriate times juxtaposed Sherlock's reaction to that of Johnny Depp in _Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas_ , when he was so stoned we became afraid of the wallpaper. The doctor had to bite his tongue to keep himself focused.

"Look, whatever you seem to think I did," he told Sherlock reasonably, "I promise I didn't. But Sherlock," he added as he set his gun down onto the coffee table, closer to himself so not to give Sherlock ideas, "What's with all the weird questions? What could _I_ possibly have done that _you_ couldn't figure out?"

Sherlock only grew more and more agitated, staring at the gun, so John decided to backpedal a bit. "It's beyond me," he said calmly, trying soothe his friends, "I just don't see why you do this. What goes through your mind. If only you knew how hard it is to see you like this. We all indulge in some level of self-destruction, I guess," he tried to joke when Sherlock finally looked up at him, "But this is insane, Sherlock.

I don't believe you," Sherlock said, his voice dangerously low. "If what you say is true, then there's no game, no puzzle, no riddle. What could you gain from this? What would your endgame be?"

And that's when John understood the look of fear in his friend's eyes. That's when he realised what, or rather who Sherlock was seeing instead of him. Meanwhile, the detective's breathing had started to come quicker than usual, and his eyes seemed even more unfocused.

Doctor's instincts kicking in, John went to examine his friend's features, hoping the proximity would also help him see the truth. "I am not Moriarty," he told him calmly but firmly, "I'm John, the guy who used to live here with you, Sherlock. You understand that?" But Sherlock didn't seem to. "I want to help you. If you'd just listen—"

But Sherlock wasn't listening. Not that he'd been listening before, John realised absently as Sherlock positively lunged at him. Before he knew it, he was on the ground, trying to protect himself from his best friend's assault. A sharp pain erupted in his chest as Sherlock kicked and kicked and suddenly John couldn't breathe, the wind knocked out of him as his ribs cracked. _Cracked, not broken_ , he self-diagnosed, _Thank God for small mercies_.

He didn't get much time to recover as Sherlock decided to switch from feet to fists, and soon it was his head that John was trying to protect. "Sherlock!" he gasped, still out of breath, "Sherlock, stop it! It's me!"

Turning his face toward Sherlock had been a mistake, and soon John saw stars as he felt himself fall backward. He felts his left heel nudge something under the sofa. As he was trying to figure out what it was, he looked up and saw Sherlock turn slowly toward him, his gun in hand. John's heart leapt in his throat before he remembered that the gun wasn't loaded. But Sherlock didn't know that, did he?

Sending a silent thanks to his late father for forcing him to join the rugby team in secondary school, John tackled Sherlock to the ground and pinned him there, panting from the effort. "Listen to me!" he ordered, "I'm not Moriarty, it's just a hallucination. It's the drugs, nothing more." Sherlock kept wriggling, the jerking movements hurting John's ribs, but the doctor held on. "Sherlock, you have to fight it. I know you're in there somewhere, just—"

But John was interrupted when something hard and solid came into contact with his bad shoulder. Pain exploded as damaged nerve endings screamed and he lost his grip, another sharp punch catching him square in the jaw. He fell to the ground, aware of the very real danger his friend represented. He had seen the look in Sherlock's eyes while he was pinning him down, and it had terrified him. The taller man wouldn't stop at hurting him. He was out to kill him. The fact that he wasn't the person Sherlock saw didn't matter.

John didn't even have a chance to sit up before his skull was introduced to a world of pain. He tried to brace himself for the blow, but when it came it still made his head reel in pain. He blinked several times, all aches and sores in his body dulling out as everything started to turn dark. Some part of him wanted to give in, but John fought it. Of course he did. He was a soldier, after all. He didn't know what else to do.

A pair of hands wrapped around his throat, and John realised that this was it. He was going to die at the hands of his best friend, who would have to live with this for the rest of his life. He wasn't going to be around for his daughter's birth, or to accompany her through her life. He would never see Mary's smile again. These thoughts made him fight harder and he remembered his gun, one hand shooting out to reach for it, but Sherlock soon crushed that hope, too.

"Sherlock," he mouthed, "Please…"

As he felt his strength slip away from him, John wondered how Sherlock would cope with the fact that he'd just murdered him. It was his last conscious thought as he slowly fell into oblivion.


	3. Aftermath

**The aftermath**

As soon as John opened his eyes, he wished he hadn't.

There was pain everywhere as the ceiling of the living room of 221b, Baker Street swam into views, its cracks dancing in front of his eyes. He lay there, unable to move, unable to speak, unable to think as he closed his eyes and waited for the pain to subside enough for him to even consider attempting any of those things.

He became very aware of the sound of someone's erratic breathing and he took a small, measured breath of his own and held it. He exhaled slowly, counting to ten, before starting again, breathing in a little deeper this time. The pain didn't exactly lessen, per se, but it did help take the edge off.

"Please," he heard a broken voice say, before the gasping breaths resumed, "Wake up, wake up, wake up…"

John couldn't help but wonder if that voice was actually talking to someone else or to themselves. The voice didn't seem to be too sure either.

Determined to find out who the voice belong to and help them in any way he could, John took a couple of steadying breaths before cracking his eyes open again, fighting the wave of nausea that accompanied the effort. He waited for his sight to right itself somewhat before slowly, tentatively turning his head in the direction of the laboured breaths.

A tall, lanky figure was kneeling next to him, its head bowed and his empty hands resting on its knees. Its shoulders were shaking, and John finally understood that they were crying. The doctor blinked a couple of times in order to bring the figure into focus, and when he finally did, he recognized the figure immediately. _Good, concussion isn't that bad, then,_ his medical mind supplied. He opened his mouth to call Sherlock's name, but only a weak croak made it past his lips.

Sherlock's sobs came to an abrupt stop, but the detective raised his head painstakingly slowly, too afraid to look up and find out that he had imagined John's voice. When finally he met his friend's open, _alive_ eyes, he felt as though the invisible hand that had been crushing his ribcage had finally let go. "John!" he exclaimed, his voice anything but steady.

John tried to swallow but then his throat rebelled, reminding him of the abuse it had just taken. So the doctor settled for a nod, indicating that he was indeed conscious. Sherlock made a strangled sound and scooted forward, his hands shooting out toward John but then they froze in mid-air, Sherlock's face twisting in remorse. Flashes of what he had just done to his best friend froze him in place, too scared to touch John. Sherlock felt like he should never try to touch anyone again.

"I'm sorry," he told John, giving way to a fresh wave of tears, "I didn't mean… I thought you were…"

But he didn't finish his sentence. He bowed his head again, the burden of his actions weighing him down. It didn't matter what he'd thought, he realised. There was no excuse for what he had done. What kind of excuse was there to find, anyway? _I'm sorry I didn't recognize you because I was stoned off my head_? _I'm sorry I thought you were the crazed psychopath I've made an enemy of and who almost blew you up because of me once?_

 _Besides,_ John had urged him countless of times to quit using entirely. How many times had he reminded him that drug use, no matter how in control you thought you were, was dangerous? What Sherlock had failed to realise was that John meant that it wasn't just dangerous for Sherlock.

Yes, Sherlock Holmes hadn't listened. Sherlock Holmes had it all under control. Sherlock Holmes knew what he was doing. And now, sitting helplessly on the floor of the living room, Sherlock Holmes was left to regret risking the life of the best friend he'd ever had. He had finally driven away the only person who had always stuck around. "God, John," he whispered, "I'm so sorry."

A shaky hand touched his knee and Sherlock looked up only to see John was giving him a sad smile. The doctor didn't seem like he was able to talk, but his face spoke volume. _It's okay, Sherlock._

Only it wasn't. It wasn't okay, and if Sherlock hadn't still been processing both the shock of his actions and the relief to find out that John was still there, he would probably have shouted at him. When your supposed best friend got high enough to beat you within an inch of your life, you don't reassure them. You get angry, you insult them, you vow to leave and never come back.

"I know it comes too late," Sherlock said, trying to sound calm and in control but he only sounded sad and defeated, "But I'm done. I'll give you the entirety of my stash and you'll dispose of it however you see fit. I'll never take any kind of drugs again."

John gave him an encouraging smile and nodded again.

"I won't ask you to forgive me," Sherlock went on resolutely, "And I'll understand it if you never want to see me again. I just…" he swallowed pas the lump in his throat, "I just want you to know how very sorry I am. I—

\- Sherlock," John rasped as he slid his elbows up to brace himself before making his slow, painful way to a semi-sitting position.

He slipped slightly and Sherlock automatically reached out to support him, one hand resting between his shoulder blades. "You probably shouldn't move," he advised hesitantly. "Your ribs…"

But John waved him off. "Cracked, not broken," he managed to croak out, his voice sounding like somebody had sandpapered his throat.

"You probably shouldn't talk either," Sherlock mumbled.

"Remind me if you will…" John paused to catch his breath, "Who has the medical degree."

Sherlock smirked despite himself. "Actually, I do." When John raised an eyebrow at him, he shrugged innocently, only too thankful for that second of levity. "I nicked it ages ago. I intended on giving it back when you noticed it was gone, but you never did."

John shook his head and chuckled, two actions that concussions and crushed throat didn't particularly agree with. He coughed, screwing his eyes shut in pain as his skull felt like it was ripping apart. He was vaguely aware of Sherlock propping him up gingerly, and John's hand reached out to hang onto the front of Sherlock's shirt for support.

"Now listen," John rasped once he got his breath back, "Cause I'm not saying it twice." Pause for breath. "I'm utterly pissed at you and you've got a major lecture coming." Pause for breath. "But… I forgive you."

Sherlock blinked once, twice, swallowed, cocked his head, blinked again. John had the mental image of a golden retriever sitting in his friend's place but had to refrain from laughing, as it would only have upset his ribs, throat and head more. "W-why?" Sherlock stammered at last, and for a second John honestly had no answer to give.

So instead he sat up completely, using Sherlock for support as the detective gingerly followed his movements. "Because, Sherlock," John started slowly as the room started spinning a little bit faster, "For one thing, I'm still there to forgive you, so I might as well make something of it."

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but John held up a finger to silence him and was obeyed immediately. "Secondly," he went on, massaging his temple and trying his best to be understood despite his broken voice, "Because if at least it was incentive enough to make you quit, it wasn't a _complete_ disaster—

\- Not worth it," Sherlock mumbled automatically, but John silenced him again.

"And finally," he said with a sigh as he realised his voice was getting away from him for good, "Because you've obviously been punished enough."

That, at least, Sherlock didn't try to deny.

Unwilling to keep torturing his own throat and having finally made his point anyway, John gestured at Sherlock to help him off the floor and into his armchair, then made the universal gesture for "drink". The detective hurried wordlessly to comply, filling a glass at the tap in the kitchen as John carefully removed his jacket and started feeling around his own ribs to assess the damage.

When John had given himself as thorough a check-up as possible, Sherlock checked him for a concussion and both men decided that it was only a mild one. In his drugged stupor, Sherlock hadn't applied nearly as much force as he had meant to. _Thank God for that_ , John couldn't help but think, _Because he was certainly set on ending me._

Sherlock, for his part, was fidgeting nervously and kept suggesting they go to hospital just in case, but John was adamant. "I'm a doctor, remember, I can tell if a case needs the hospital or not.

\- But what if—

\- No, Sherlock," John replied firmly. "Besides, my wife's a nurse, what's the worst that could happen?"

Later, when John came home to find Mary sitting in their living room with a book and a glass of wine, he was welcomed with a gasp and wide eyes. Mary got up as fast as she could – which wasn't much, pregnant belly and all that – and went up to him, asking him worried questions. "Just an old enemy Sherlock got in a fight with," the doctor said soothingly, the effect slightly ruined by the state of his vocal chords, "I just got caught in the middle of it."

Of course, Mary had more questions. Did the guy get caught? Yes, it was safe to say they probably would never hear of him again. Did John need to go to the hospital? No, he would be fine with the supply they had at home. Was Sherlock okay? Well, he blames himself, but yes, he would be.

Some part of John felt guilty about the story he had just fed his wife, but John figured that he hadn't actually lied altogether. And really, he was a bit worried of what her reaction would be if she learned the truth. The last thing he needed was to have his wife and his best friend engage in a death match. Again.

 _Besides_ , he reasoned, _it's not like she gets to moan about being lied to_.

It took days before Sherlock was able to look John in the eye again, and his apologetic demeanour lasted as long as John's bruises did. The detective kept his promise and never used again. Everyone needs an incentive, it's true. He just wished his hadn't almost cost him his best friend.

Then came the inevitable day when his racing mind had nothing to focus on, when he would feel the familiar itch start under his skin. Even though he had, true to his word, given John his stash, he had every confidence he could get some more very quickly. He knew his way around.

It would be so easy to satisfy his need. John didn't need to know, did he? It wouldn't be a relapse, it would just be… Taking the edge off. He was in control. He went so far as to get up off the couch and trade his dressing gown for his Belstaff but then, as he bent to pull on his shoes, his eyes fell on the hardwood floor.

There, visible only to those who knew what to look for, was a dent. A small depression in the wood, split in the middle by an extremely fine crack. He hadn't noticed it before but there it was, and he didn't need to wonder what it was either. It was the exact place he had almost succeeded in bashing John's skull in.

He lost track of time, staring at what felt like a glaring evidence of his weakness, but he felt the ache slowly drain from his body as he stared the consequences in the face. Letting his shoe drop to the floor, he pulled off his coat, hung it neatly on the rack and put his dressing gown back on, allowing himself to wrap it close around his body.

"Not worth it," he murmured to himself.

He walked to the windowsill, opened the case that was lying there and carefully picked up his violin and bow. Tucking the instrument under his chin, he smiled to himself. Not as satisfying as the drugs, perhaps, but creating definitely beats destroying any day. Sherlock took a breath and brought the bow down on the strings.

 **The end**


End file.
